


how to sidestep your feelings: a guide

by pixwrites



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, every chapter is its own thing, look this is not gonna be a fun ride, main character is non-binary, so there are fun parts to a bad ride, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixwrites/pseuds/pixwrites
Summary: leigh does dumb, finds out it's not who they are, do another dumb but for better reasons
Relationships: Ricardo Ortega/Sidestep
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> leigh does dumb, finds out it's not who they are, do another dumb but for better reasons

The mirror is shitty, tinted brown and too small, but it's all you have. And you've never had the chance to look at yourself like this. Never got the time, or the solitude, always someone judging, rushing you.

Truth is, you don't know the person in the mirror. She doesn't feel like you. But she's crying just like you, knuckles white around a knife handle. There's still some blood stains on it, so you must have used it at some point, but you don't remember. There's a lot you don't remember.

You look away from the woman in the mirror and down to your own hands. Steady, despite what they've done, what they're about to do. You grabbed the knife to defend yourself, yes, but right now it feels like the means to an end.

You got out, but did you, really? You're still trapped. In this motel room, in your own head, in this body that will maybe never feel like it's yours. Why would you give them the chance to make it worse, to make you worse?

Really, killing yourself would be the biggest fuck you to them. Let them try to manipulate you when you're nothing but a corpse.

That thought pulls you back, enough to realize there's someone sobbing, and it might be you. It might just be the woman in the mirror, the not-you. It doesn't matter much, you're about to leave her, and all these feelings, way behind.

The blade is cold against your wrist, and too sharp. Blood already welling up, mixing with the orange, the dull brown of your clothes. Is it disgust on her face? Or fear? She can't exist without you.

But maybe.

Maybe you can exist without her. Maybe dying isn't the worst thing you can do, maybe living is. For yourself, for your handlers, for the world. Really, everyone will be worse off for having you. The sound of your own laughter startles you, but you know what to do now. Cut her off.

You don't bother wiping the knife clean before you bring it to your head. Lock by lock, bit by bit, you cut off your hair, use your fingers to measure it, and keep slashing at it until the woman in the mirror is gone. You don't know the person who's looking back now, half a dozen nicks in their fingers when they cut too far, but you decide you like them a lot more than their predecessor. Their smile is slightly manic, but you find yourself liking that.

You're a whole new person, and you refuse to ever regret it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> listen i needed the kind of disgustingly soft that i couldn't find so i wrote it myself

It’s that time when the evening’s already passed but it doesn’t feel like night yet when he calls. You never meant to get sucked in to become that person to get these phone calls, but here you are. You don’t even know what he will ask yet, but saying no is not really an option.

“Sorry about the time, but, could you come over? I could use-” You cut Ortega off before he even says what he wants, because you can hear that he needs… you? Or whatever it is he thinks you are. It’s getting harder and harder to see the line between the two, because as much as it opposes your every plan, you want to be that for him.

“I’ll be there in a bit, want me to bring anything?”

“Just you,” he’s smiling as he says it, you can hear it through the phone line, the exhaustion, the everything that stands between you.

\-----

He’s already most of the way towards drunk when you arrive, but you don’t mind. It means he’s a lot more cheerful than what you were bracing for, and you’re getting pretty good at handling Ortega when he’s joking and confident, even if it’s faked.

You take off your jacket and “One layer down, just twenty more to go?”

“I can always just leave again, you know.”

“Nooooooo, I’ll play nice, I promise,” he’s doing his best puppy eyes and they are frightfully effective, so you have no defenses up when he grabs you and pulls you to the couch and into his lap. Somewhere inside your head, a voice is screaming to stop this immediately, don’t get dragged into this even further than you already have, but sadly for that voice, you’re very comfortable. The sensation of being wanted, longed for, even, is something you haven’t allowed yourself to imagine for so long that it takes you by surprise every time, even after dating Ortega for a while now. Not that you’ve let him in, exactly, but there are some things - what you are - that are too certain to break what you have. You can’t do that. Not yet. You’ll have to eventually, but you keep pushing it into a dark corner of your brain along with every other way you know you’ll have to hurt this man.

“Hey, you,” the voice pulls you out of your reverie and you have to focus on the face just inches away from yours. You just hope none of your thoughts were showing in your expression. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, as if he’s reading your mind. Or something.

With a shrug, you deflect the question. “Just tired, but it’s fine. More worried about you, to be honest, you sounded like shit on the phone.”

“Aah, that’s all better now that you’re here.”

“Cheesy and gross. What’s going on?” you harden your voice just a bit so he knows not to dodge the question, but follow it up by snuggling just that little bit closer because… fuck making sense, right? Yeah, you can live with not making sense if it gets you this kind of high quality hugs.

“Was just a rough day, I -- I guess I was hoping for a way to just forget about it for a bit?” As he’s saying it, one of his hands starts exploring under your clothes at the small of your back, moving past all the layers until his fingers brush against skin, then retreats to leave one layer between him and you. Relaxing becomes a lot harder, but he’s doing his best to accomodate you, so you try anyway. 

He barely makes a move without checking with you first, and before long you’re melting into his touch, cursing yourself and your existence because you can’t risk more without being really weird about it. You briefly consider getting him drunk enough that he likely won’t remember what you look like with your clothes off, but you can’t be sure and it feels unfair to him, anyway. So you stick to making out, keeping Ortega sufficiently distracted from the rest of life for the rest of the night.

\-----

You wake up from the little pinpricks of dawn’s early light, doubting if you’re actually waking up or still dreaming. Pressed against your back there’s the warmth of another body, and that’s not a thing you allow yourself. Ever. So it must be a dream, right? Still, this is too nice and real or not, it’s better not to get used to the idea, so you slowly start to untangle yourself. You turn around and see Ortega fast asleep, a trail of drool to his pillow. Probably real, then.

Shit, this is real. You  _ really should not _ be here at all. And why are at least half of your clothes on the floor and not on your body? Shit shit  _ shit _ .

You rush to get your things back on, nothing else registering as your entire being screams to get out. Only at the door to the apartment do you remember to breathe again, and suddenly you feel awful. Ortega has shown in his every word and his every move that he cares, probably much more than he should. Definitely much more than he should. 

Going back is not an option, but maybe you can do something to make leaving feel less abrupt. You should leave a note. You’re still thinking about what kind of appointment you could have just remembered to have to leave so early when you hear noise in the bedroom. And then… crying? No, that makes no sense. Maybe you could say it’s some kind of therapy? But then he’d probably ask how it went next time and that’s a whole other thing you don’t want to deal with.

Was that your name you just heard?

Your head is telling you to just go, forget about the note, just leave, never come back, no need to explain anything or see him hurt if you never have to face him again, but your feet are taking you back into the bedroom. He’s standing by the open window, looking out. For a second, you try to tell yourself it’s all fine, but you can’t help but notice the way his hands are gripping the window ledge, the shaking in his shoulders, the way he seems to barely keep himself upright.

You don’t remember crossing the room, but suddenly your arms are around him, gently pulling him back, trying to make him turn around when that doesn’t work. “Come on back here, please,” you can barely get out a whisper as he whirls on you, the discharge making you flinch, the back of your knees hitting the bed, but you keep standing, keep your hands extended towards him.

“They just… and now you expect me to--” He gasps as he finally looks at you, as if he reached the surface after nearly drowning in the past, and then he’s in front of you, and his knees are giving out, and you can just grab him to stop him from falling, and his hands are just hanging on to you however they can, and he keeps saying sorry and you just hold him tighter.

\-----

Later. Much later, really. You’ve been up a few times, getting some food, stretching your legs, at one point to hide in the bathroom because you suddenly remembered a call you had to make as Eden and you didn’t want Ortega trying to wake you up when you’re in another body. Once because Steel called and you didn’t want to hear Ortega explaining why he wasn’t coming in today. It still feels too much like your fault and you can’t admit that or fuck knows what else will come out with that bit of truth. 

But now you’re having dinner, not really looking at him and you know he’s not really looking at you either, both just avoiding having to deal with anything other than getting through the day. It’s probably for the best, just stick around long enough to make sure he’ll manage and get the hell out. But then he is looking at you and you can’t not see it, so you reach out with one hand and cup his cheek, meanwhile mentally preparing for the inevitable.

But he doesn’t move away from your touch and it’s not the accusation you expected that comes out. It’s just a soft “you’ll stay?” followed by a sigh as if those words were a breath he’d been holding all day. Your hand drops a bit in shock, but you recover by taking his and squeezing gently. It’s only because you’ve kept your emotions securely behind lock and key all day that you don’t start crying right then and there.

“I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was the first thing i wrote in fiction in oh, probably like a decade? and im not very Proud of it anymore but i still value it


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's an ortega pov and he has a Bad Time. shortly after hb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a fine example of the typical pixel writes method: have things to do, so sit on the bathroom floor, write on phone, do not proofread just post

Your first thought is you must have the wrong place. The colors are all off. Sky too blue, bricks too dark, there's weeds coming through the cracks in the pavement, too green.

You only remember this place in black and white.

There's a warning sign. Police lines. Do not enter, don't even come near this building, it's unstable, liable to crush you under rubble if you only dare to look at it too long. Not that there's that much left, anyway. There's no more fourth floor to reach.

None of these things can stop you.

You're not sure what you expect to find here, or even what you want. Those things have been far-off concepts for a while now. You don't even remember how you got here. You keep looking over your shoulder, though, as if expecting to see someone behind you. To have your back or stab it?

No. Leigh wouldn't. Would they?

Was their death not a betrayal?

If only they would show up now to betray you. To tell you that they faked everything, just to get away from you. Even all those people dead. Even--even Anathema. Maybe they'd already tried all other options, and you weren't listening. Maybe they  _ would _ rather die than spend another second with you.

It's all your fault anyway, a little more blame won't change things.

The front door is stuck, but the window next to it was blasted to shards, so you walk in through there. To the stairwell. Intact enough to make it up two floors. You're not counting being showered in rubble and dust as harmful. Not like you got a brick on your head.

The third floor landing is blocked by the remains of a painting. A red balloon?

The outer wall here is low enough in places that you'd barely have to lift your feet to walk out. It's hard not to do it. You've jumped off higher. And it wouldn't kill you, anyway Might make you feel a bit closer to Leigh.

But they took a running start.

You look behind you one last time. Wondering, if the two of you ever really left that stairwell, right before things went to shit. If you'd been looking behind you, then. Did you see them fall behind and think they'd be fine? Did you even bother to check?

Is that them, calling out to you?

"Please come back down the way you came, sir. This place is dangerous." Not them. But it's a relief, at least, to be told what to do. The policeman looks like he's going to lecture you, but something in your face stops him. Maybe the former marshal.

You don't remember how--or if--you got home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on my own half-asleep thoughts from discord a couple months ago like days before i wrote this, Leigh is a little shit and winds Ortega up, surely never intending to do so

For once, you can tell what Ortega is thinking about. Or maybe you should say, trying desperately hard not to think about. He’s paying just a little too much attention where he puts his hands, not wanting to presume or pressure you. Any other time, you’d be worrying at how much he puts your comfort above his own, but this time… might as well take advantage of the situation.

You start off slow. Your hand is already on his chest, so it’s easy to start tracing little circles over his shirt with your fingers. No pressure, just playing around a bit, like you’re not even paying attention to what you’re doing. You don’t lift your head from his shoulder yet, give it some time, let him relax again first.

His arm tightens around you for a second and he sighs, a little smile on his face, in his eyes. You count out a few breaths and move. Just a little bit, forward and up and now your lips are against his throat. A first tiny kiss and his breathing stutters a little. With a few more kisses you work your way to his collarbone, a little nip on the skin there. He tries to suppress the gasp, but his fingers are digging into your ribs, working of their own accord to keep you right there. 

You look up for a second as he licks his lips. Hide your smile under some sloppy kisses along his jawline. You linger at the soft skin under his jaw, his head leaning back for better access, heartbeat speeding up under your lips. You shift your position so you don’t have to strain as much to reach his face. It’s a coincidence that one of your knees ends up pressing against his inner thigh, surely. Your hand moves from his chest to his face, a gentle hold on his chin, thumb dangerously close to pushing into his mouth. His breathing shudders, but he doesn’t say anything as you push against his face, turning it away.

You continue your trail of kisses up the short distance to his ear, relishing the way he’s fighting his desire to give in. The way he bites down on his lower lip, the little whine that comes out along with his breath.

You brush your thumb over his lower lip. “You alright?” You’re not sure if you can still pretend innocence, especially since you’re practically purring into his ear. Doesn’t hurt to try, though.

“Mmhm,” he nods. It’s not very convincing. Especially when you give his earlobe a little nibble and he gasps. Both his hands are fisted into the back of your clothes by now, whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t want to give in.

Yet.

You have a lot of time.

A few moments of respite, you lean your face against the side of his head, make sure your breathing is still steady. Your free hand playing with the hair on the back of his head, letting the curls wrap around your fingers. Ricardo turns a bit, looking at your lips, but you keep him at a distance with just a bit of pressure. You’re not really restraining him, nor really trying to, when the fact is he could flip this around and have his way with you at any time. He knows you would be more than happy to let him, too.

No, his restraints are mostly his own. Sure, you can tell him off, but it’s his own stubbornness stopping him at this point. You’re not exactly capable of hiding the smile anymore, of pretending you have no idea what effect you have on him, you’re just having fun seeing how far you can push him until he cracks and either takes what he wants, or begs for it. And he doesn’t seem to want to do either.

So you retrace the path of kisses, lets your hands drop to his chest. One of them sneaks under the bottom hem of his shirt, where you use one finger to trace lines and scars on his lower abdomen, using your nail as an accentuation. With the other hand, you pull the collar of his shirt aside so you can kiss your way down his throat, along his collarbone.

Your finger inches closer and closer to the edge of his pants, and he can’t stop the way his body pushes upwards to prolong the touch, to deepen it. You only make it worse by shifting your weight just that little bit, so close to where he wants it. He’s biting his lip hard but it doesn’t disguise the moan.

“Did that hurt? Should I stop?” You flash the most innocent smile you can manage right now. Not that he’s fooled, but that’s of little consequence.

He huffs out a breath. “Leigh, you fucking…” He sighs and shakes his head.

You nod okay, move your arms around his shoulders, and settle back in to cuddle. If your leg happens to press against his erection now, well, that’s a coincidence. Right?

He still lasts longer than you would’ve guessed, measured breaths, muscles tense, hands twitching, maybe to push you away, maybe to pull you closer. Probably both.

Head still on his shoulder, you press a little kiss against the side of his neck. And just like that, his last defenses crumble. You’re on your back before you know it, his mouth urgent on yours.. He’s using one arm for balance, but the other, and both of yours, are more concerned with getting clothes out of the way.

Most of his patience and self-control have already run out, so it’s fast, and messy, and he’s a bit less careful than usual. But you welcome this. So what if your hips will be a collection of bruises tomorrow, you already got your reward out of this, making him squirm. Not that you’re about to stop him from making sure you hit your climax, too. Might as well put that cocky tongue to good use.

Afterwards. He’s most of the way asleep, head on your chest. One hand is on his back, thumb running circles, getting rid of any leftover tension. Your other hand is probably counteracting it, though. You’ve got your index finger dragging from behind his ear to his collarbone and back, tiniest bit of pressure from your finger nail. 

He sleepily grabs the offending hand and pulls it close to his face. “So mean,” he grumbles.

You laugh softly. He has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need y'all to know. writing this but me in a crisis of faith. i was playing WoW while editing bc why do one thing well when you can do two badly, and got a fucking charged lightning rod (a wand), and i still haven't fully argued myself into believing it was a coincidence.


End file.
